


Unconventional Tactics (That Thing We Do)

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coping, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 03:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18189245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: They could only deal with so much sleep deprivation; their livers could only handle so much alcohol.  They had to manage somehow.





	Unconventional Tactics (That Thing We Do)

**Author's Note:**

> References canon violence. Spoilers for all of s6 and s7e1. Concrit always welcomed!

At some point after midnight, Wyatt surfaced from his own restless sleep, to tortured gasps and the dull thuds of heels against the mattress from the bed across the room.

 _Ah, shit. Here we go._ Instantly awake, he bolted from his bed, reaching Mac’s side just in time to watch him tear at his own neck as if trying to pull a rope away from it. Wyatt sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook his arm.

“Hey. Hey. Wake up, Mac. Wake up.”

Frantic, Mac released the hold on his throat and rose like a shot. Startled, Wyatt jumped back before Mac caught him on the chin. Eyes wide and panicked, Mac didn’t appear to recognize him.

“You okay there, man?”

Mac drew a long, shuddering breath, then slumped and ducked his head away, refusing to look at Wyatt. “Fucking hell. Just a dream.”

“I kinda figured. Which one?” Wyatt asked, though from Mac’s actions he’d already guessed the answer.

“Hanging.”

Wyatt nodded in sympathy. He’d only seen the very end of it, Mac struggling in that noose in the Magyar Ultra stronghold back in Hungary as they’d arrived to rescue him. He’d been only seconds from death before Reynolds shot the rope to free him. Wyatt never wanted to witness it again.

“Yeah. Hey look, can I get you anything? Glass of water?”

Mac shook his head. “I’m good.”

Sure he was. Wyatt glanced away and scrubbed his face, thinking what to do. Mac was a prickly son-of-a-bitch at the best of times. Just after a nightmare was one of the worst. And he knew, from his own long experience, neither of them was going back to sleep after one like that. Not for awhile. Not without help.

Before he could second-guess himself, Wyatt lunged across the room to grab his pillow, and returned to Mac’s cot. Then he swung his feet onto the cot beside Mac and slipped beneath the sheets.

Mac glared at him. “The fuck d’you think you’re doing, arsehole?”

Wyatt slid down until he was lying beside him and met his gaze. Probably that thing we don’t talk about, he thought. Aloud he said evenly, “How about moving over and giving me some room?”

Mac glowered at him for a moment, then grudgingly ceded half of the narrow cot, rolling on his side to face the wall. Wyatt shrugged and turned over, facing the other way. It was nothing he wasn’t used to by now. He stared into the muggy darkness at the ceiling, and waited.

~~~

It had been almost six months since the three remaining members of Section 20, Wyatt, Mac, and Novin, had been suspended and banished to BATUK-Nairobi.

On one hand, after the dust from the Project Tenebrae shitstorm had finally settled, they’d been allowed to keep their ranks, and at least had been re-assigned jobs in the military. If Wyatt could call teaching squaddie recruits the difference between the live and the butt end of a rifle a real job, instead of its own twisted punishment for someone with his level of field training.

(Section 20 had been elite forces for fuck’s sake. Hell, elite of the elite. They weren’t meant for this mindless scut work.)

On the other hand, effectively pariahs, Wyatt, Mac, and Novin were more-or-less isolated from everyone else in the unit, and as a result, had too much time on their hands to think.

High on adrenaline and at the edge of constant exhaustion from chasing Lowry and Idrissi halfway across the world, during the mission they’d slept soundly whenever they could catch a couple of hours. They’d all preferred it that way: it kept inevitable nightmares at bay.

Hell, these days they didn’t even break a sweat on base. So it seemed the fucking dreams fought back, making up for lost time. Not only that, they’d brought reinforcements to boot.

Their preferred coping methods (drinking, and/or fucking one-night stands to oblivion) didn’t always succeed, either. Wyatt had scared away more than one of his lovers once the dreams picked up steam a few weeks in. And the look on Mac’s face when Wyatt told him what happened, spoke volumes about what was going on with him, too.

By the time they’d passed their fourth month in purgatory, they were increasingly short-tempered, struggling to deal – and failing miserably.

Until they’d stumbled on an admittedly unconventional solution one Friday night. A few months into their purgatory, Mac had imbibed so much he’d passed out at the bar before he could hit on one of the base bunnies. Wyatt, not that much further behind him in the drunk department, had dragged him back home and put Mac to bed, in the recovery position just in case so the dickhead wouldn’t choke. He crashed on Mac’s bed next to him to literally kick-start his breathing if needed. Once he was satisfied Mac was safely asleep, too wasted to move himself, Wyatt had finally allowed himself to drift off too.

The hangover next day had been a bitch, but Wyatt had had no memory of his dreams in the morning.

And neither had Mac. How about that. Sweet, blissful, dreamless sleep. They almost felt human again.

It had worked the next night, too. And the next. (It had been a holiday weekend.)

And then they found they didn’t need the alcohol at all, which helped curtail weekday hangovers. They just needed the other’s presence nearby for the most part.

Novin had raised an eyebrow, but surprisingly had no comment when she visited one day after work to help Wyatt move his things into Mac’s room. She had her own flat assigned next door, one all to herself. Of the three of them, she’d seemed to adjust the best to their reduced circumstances. (Though Wyatt wondered what kind of shit kept her awake at night, because Novin had actually looked a bit wistful. If anything, she was even more taciturn about herself than Mac. Seriously, man, fuck that stiff upper lip attitude.)

Mac hadn’t said anything either when he saw the new living arrangements, just shrugged and warned him not to snore.

So for awhile, sharing a bedroom and occasionally a bed seemed to do the trick. Usually, lying back-to-back would calm the one down enough to fall back sleep in minutes, and then the other could return to their own bed. They took turns depending on who endured the nocturnal onslaught. In their business, they all had their unique repertoire of nightmares to draw on.

However, the nightmares soon began to escalate again. They could only deal with so much sleep deprivation; their livers could only handle so much alcohol. They had to manage somehow.

They needed another coping strategy.

~~~

After what felt like a solid half hour, Mac was still wide awake and shaking. It wasn’t because it was cold, either; it was February, and the room temperature in their eighth-floor flat was comfortable. Concerned, Wyatt hefted himself up and rolled over, placing a hand on Mac’s elbow. Mac flinched at the touch.

“C’mon, Mac, you’re safe now. Let it go,” Wyatt said gently. “Let it go, man.”

“Don’t think I’m trying to?”

Wyatt grimaced at the flat tone in his voice. “Not at all,” he replied, hoping it sounded more cheerful and less doubtful. “But you tell me.”

He wriggled over until he was curled around Mac, one arm snaked around his middle, forehead leaning against Mac’s bare shoulder. Mac tensed at the contact but didn’t pull away.

“It must’ve been a bad one to get you this wound up,” Wyatt said, breath puffing against Mac’s skin.

“Fuck off, arsehole. You have no idea.”

“I would if you’d just say something.”

“You really don’t want to know, mate.”

“No, I don’t,” Wyatt admitted, because that was true, “but if it helps you, I’m here if you want to vent.”

Mac fell silent, to the point Wyatt would have wondered if he was even breathing, if it weren’t for the rhythmic motion of his chest. Yeah, looks like they’re going for part two of this thing we don’t talk about, Wyatt thought. So he pressed closer behind Mac, his palm flat against Mac’s very toned ab ridges, and arched his hips forward.

“What about it?” he murmured in Mac’s ear.

~~~

To be fair, part two actually had been Mac’s idea to begin with.

One night a few months back, Mac had admitted to Wyatt and Novin, over what had to be their sixth or seventh shot of whisky, that he’d once offered to sleep with Reynolds.

It had been back in Turov while they’d been chasing down Lowry and Markov. Reynolds had just taken down that poor girl who’d tried to set off the fake gas canister at the airport. He’d related how Reynolds had shot him down when they’d gone to a bar to unwind. Wyatt had almost choked on his drink.

“‘Vaguely attractive?’” Novin had outright guffawed. “Geez, you think highly of yourself, don’tcha? No wonder she chose to sleep with the bartender, mate.”

In hindsight that hadn’t been the best decision for Reynolds to make; she’d almost gotten assassinated the next morning. The idea had subconsciously stuck in Wyatt’s mind, however, submerging itself somewhere in that stewing pot of really screwed up ideas he hoarded like tarnished silver coins to cash in later. Mac hadn’t necessarily been wrong to offer himself to Reynolds under the circumstances. Though sleeping with teammates was never a good idea.

Unless the alternatives were worse.

The next time Mac wasn’t settled by Wyatt’s presence after a particularly gruelling nightmare (something to do with performing open-heart massage), while trying to calm him down, Wyatt rolled on top of him and pinned him to the bed.

Mac fought back, as Wyatt expected he would. But the tussling soon turned to rubbing against each other – and ended with their hands down each other’s shorts, jerking each other off.

“We don’t talk about this,” Mac warned, after it was over and Wyatt, sated, had returned to his own bunk. “Not to anyone. Are we clear?”

“Okay,” Wyatt said, his eyelids heavy, already starting to drift off, “just between us, copy that.” He was fine with that. He’d rather not mention it either. Especially if it meant they’d get the best night’s sleep in ages. Which they did.

They’d done it a couple of times since, one or the other climbing into the other’s bed as needed. Nothing intimate like kissing, though, or cuddling afterwards; they always returned to their own beds, and never brought it up in the morning.

But Wyatt began to wonder, how long this could last, before something else would give.

~~~

Tonight, Mac arched backward and rolled his hips, rubbing his ass against Wyatt’s groin. Yep, part two was a go; his own cock began to stiffen in response. Wyatt nuzzled the nape of his neck, playfully darting out his tongue to taste the salt there, and he slid his hand lower, just beneath the waistband of his boxers. His fingertips brushed the tip of Mac’s already-erect dick. Wyatt grinned against Mac’s damp skin at Mac’s sharp rush of breath.

“You were just waiting for this, huh?” Wyatt teased.

Mac turned over to face Wyatt at that, with a look on his face Wyatt had never seen before. He had no time to process it though, because Mac drew Wyatt in and _kissed_ him, hard and needy. Wyatt parted his lips, stunned, because he’d always considered this off the table; Mac instantly plunged his tongue inside. Holy _fuck_ , they’d gone from zero to one hundred in point six seconds. Heat rushed through Wyatt, his cock surged to full hardness, and he returned the kiss, just as hard, just as demanding. Mac ground against him, hot and thick and urgent.

Still kissing Wyatt, Mac reached out, seized Wyatt’s wrists, and with one good heave rolled them onto Wyatt’s back. Wyatt glowered at him and tried to wrench himself free. Normally they were evenly-matched, but Mac had leverage in this position. He pressed Wyatt into the mattress, settling himself between Wyatt’s legs for better contact.

The springs in the cot mattress creaked with each urgent back-and-forth of their hips. “Shit, Mac, Novin’s gonna hear us,” Wyatt gasped when Mac drew back for air. The walls between their adjoining apartments were almost paper-thin.

“Think she’ll get off on it?” Mac replied. But he slowed his thrusts until the squeaking died down.

“What, you want her to join us?”

“This party’s strictly for two tonight.” He claimed Wyatt’s mouth again with almost bruising force.

Wyatt was only too happy to go along. Humid, musky arousal wafted around them; Mac released his wrists to glide callused, sure fingers down Wyatt’s torso, skating over ribs and obliques, up over the abs and along his pecs, carefully avoiding the knife scar in his side. Oh, fuck, the bastard knew just where to touch him, too. Wyatt moaned deep in his throat and tilted his head up for Mac to nuzzle his neck. Didn’t matter that they were humping like horny teenagers, still partially clothed. At this point, only the thrum in his veins, the pulse of his blood, and the velvet rasp of Mac’s tongue exploring the notch between his collarbones, meant anything.

Mac drew back and there was that expression again, the one that had kicked off this round of fucking. Wyatt finally began to recognize it for what it was. It wasn’t just need, though that was there in spades. It was also the fear of losing someone important to them at any moment. And Mac looked fucking _terrified_.

Wyatt stared at him, more than a little confused. They couldn’t be anywhere safer than where they were right now –

Son-of-a-bitch.

His nightmares weren’t about himself at all, were they.

Something shifted in Wyatt’s chest as the meaning dawned on him. I’m not going anywhere, Mac, he almost said aloud, but he stopped himself before he blurted out the words. He had no business making rash promises like that. Not to Mac, and Mac wouldn’t believe him anyway. Instead he raised his head to meet Mac halfway, kissing him slow and deep and sweet, hoping that was enough to get the message across; hoping Mac would believe his actions if not his words.

Maybe it was; when the kiss ended, and both drew back a bit for air, the haunted look in Mac’s expression had faded, leaving only the need. That, Wyatt could deal with. He nudged Mac to move; Mac clambered off and peeled off his boxers. Wyatt did the same. On their sides, then, they reached for each other at the same time and wrapped their fingers around each other’s dicks, stroking each other with increasing zeal.

Wyatt leaned his head into the curve of Mac’s shoulder, arching into his fist, Mac’s breath puffing into his ear in rhythm with their mutual thrusts. This was different from the previous times, not just about chasing away nightmares; Wyatt tried not to examine it too closely, pushing that thought away. He focused instead on the aching pleasure that concentrated in Mac’s hand gliding over his shaft, on the heaviness of Mac’s dick in his own fist.

Within minutes, the deliciously exquisite tension began to coil at the base of his spine. “Fuck, yeah, just like that,” Wyatt growled at one particular twist of Mac’s wrist, “just fucking like that.” In moments he stuttered to a stop, completely in thrall to the white-hot desire flooding his body. One, two, three more quick pulls, and he was there, groaning into Mac’s shoulder as he spilled over his hand.

As his climax receded he picked up the pace again, lifting his head off Mac’s shoulder to watch Mac’s grimace of pleasure: teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut, breath whistling between his teeth. Drops of sweat beaded his forehead, rolled down his neck; he was goddamn gorgeous, and something shifted again in Wyatt at seeing Mac laid bare and open like that. Mac clenched his thigh with each stroke, increasingly desperate for release, until Wyatt gave one last flick, and Mac too was coming, hard and fast and silent.

Just like that, it was over. Wyatt released him, reached down onto the floor where a box of tissues had slid under the bed. He pulled a handful from the box, passed half to Mac, and they each cleaned up, studiously avoiding each other for the moment. Something had changed, Wyatt thought; he could almost feel it hanging suspended and delicate in the air above them.

Wyatt took the used tissues, balled them up and threw them into the wastebasket between their beds. He then sank back down, not wanting to leave Mac’s side just yet, letting the air cool his overheating skin.

Mac hoisted himself on his elbow to stare down at him. Wyatt met his gaze, suppressing a shiver at the intensity of his glare.

“You’re welcome, dickhead,” Wyatt said, if only to break the tension that threatened to build between them again.

A hint of a smile played on Mac’s face. “You too, arsehole.”

Wyatt flashed a wide grin at him, then sobered, recalling the haunted look from before. “You know, we really should talk about this,” Wyatt murmured, gesturing between them.

His gaze softer than Wyatt could remember, Mac brushed his cheekbone with his thumb. “Maybe. Sure. One day.”

Wyatt waited, but Mac didn’t elaborate any further. Looks like that was the best answer he was gonna get for now, Wyatt thought. But at least it was an answer.

Mac yawned, his eyes already beginning to droop. “You gonna stay?” Mac added.

Something definitely had changed in Mac, too. “Yeah,” Wyatt said, his limbs suddenly feeling like they could melt into the mattress. “Maybe a minute.”

Mac snorted, then rose and tugged the sheets up over both of them. “Just don’t hog the covers,” he said, settling back down.

“Yeah, as long as you don’t fart,” Wyatt retorted, his eyelids heavy as lead.

Mac mumbled something, but Wyatt was too tired to parse what it was. His last thought, before succumbing to sleep, was that they’d moved on to part three of whatever was unfolding between them – whatever that meant for the days ahead.


End file.
